


Taking the Drop

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Point Break AU, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Surfing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 17:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16497212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Veronica wants to dazzle the FBI by catching a crew of bank robbers. Unfortunately, she can't do so unless Logan Echolls acts as bait.





	1. Snaking the Wave

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was written as a VMHQ birthday gift for the lovely spookykinney. The fic is, however, ultimately going to be much longer. :-)

It’s not like Veronica thought, while fighting tooth-and-nail to win a job at the FBI, that a law enforcement career would be glamorous. She assumed ‘high-risk’ and ‘life-consuming’ went without saying… but jumped in with both feet because everyone assumed she’d fail. Throughout those years she waged battles with a stacked system, though, to earn her gun and badge—she never once imagined the work would be BORING.

She’s currently reading email nine-thousand-three of more than forty-six thousand, however, so she can catalog contents to make a searchable database; and the sheer tedium has her reconsidering her position. Because sure, she MIGHT find the smoking gun in this stash, and put an international fraudster behind bars. But since right now she’s transcribing vet bills for a Pomeranian’s impacted anal glands, she has her doubts.

Voices filter back to her small and grimy cubicle, her reward for graduating Cum Laude from Columbia Law; she perks up as she hears the words, “…see if an agent’s available.” Since she’s fresh out of the Academy, and most junior on staff, Agent in Charge of Random Bullshit is usually her.

Approaching footsteps bolster this theory, so Veronica pitches her gum, straightens her somewhat-wilted blazer. Turns expectantly towards the entrance, alert-and-professional expression in place, just as Logan Echolls lounges against the frame.

He looks GOOD, she thinks illogically, even as she wilts like her sport coat. Tanned and buff and fifty times healthier than he should, considering those six years of tabloid-chronicled hedonism since she dumped him. He’s in old jeans and flip-flops, his ‘Live Fast, Die Young’ t-shirt both worn and snug; faint sun-wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he notes her disappointment. Darla from reception waves and OH-MY-GOD’s behind him as he says, “Why am I not surprised you turned a felony kidnapping investigation into a job?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still wasting your potential at the beach?” She gestures up-and-down at his ensemble. “And what on Earth are you doing in the San Diego field office, Logan? Are you planning to make another romantic drunken speech? Maybe you saw a joke flyer advertising kegs, and the metal detectors failed to deter you?”

“You wound me, Veronica,” he says, clearly not wounded, as she shoos away Darla. “You know full well I’m always the host. Like I’d deign to turn up at some random loser’s party.”

She snorts, and his grin faintly manifests. “Tragically, though, there’s a distinct lack of revelry and booze at this locale, so how about I cut to the chase? Can I interest you in a theory regarding bank robberies?”

Her eyes widen and she sits back, gesturing towards the uncomfortable guest chair. He unfolds from his lean and slouches into it, stretching out his long legs and making the cube feel minuscule.

“Now what would a boy like you know about felony theft?” She taps her lower lip while he crosses his arms, entertained. “I’m guessing very little, unless you learned on a film set—but I’ll admit you’ve disappointed me before.”

“I’m talking, specifically, about high-yield local jobs—the ones you guys have bungled like Keystone Cops for three years?” He bobs his brows, tone ever-so-slightly-patronizing. “The robbers wear Ninja Turtle masks, and collect massive hauls with a crew of four?”

“I may have heard a mention,” V says, with irony, because this case is the local Holy Grail. “As has every cable-news watcher in America.”

“Any lovers of partisan coverage realized yet the jobs only take place in the summer?”

She rolls her eyes. “Give us a little credit. We’re the FBI over here, not credulous guest stars on Scooby Doo.”

“And has it further occurred to you,” he leans forward intently, elbows on knees, “that these are the prime surfing months in So-Cal? For the rest of the year, surfers travel to the best waves…which costs more than people other than me can afford.”

He’s close enough now for her to smell his cologne, the sun-baked scent of his skin. Her voice, when she speaks, is husky. “Logan, what have you heard?”

Shrugging, he reclines against the wall, satisfied he’s piqued her curiosity. “Rumors,” he says, with a hand wave. “Nothing substantial. You know how it goes, when we reprobates toast marshmallows and gossip. High-denomination bills are turning up among locals, lately…and I’m the only guy who hasn’t spent his trust fund.”

“Rumors,” she repeats flatly, disappointment washing over her. Decides he looks and smells too lickable for pointless conversation to continue. “Well if that’s all you’ve got, no need to prolong the awkwardness. Thanks for stopping by–we’ll look into your allegations and touch base if necessary. Appreciate the good citizenship, blah-blah, God bless America.”

She finger-waves, and he stares for a moment, disbelief fading into cynicism. “Fine,” he says at last, pushing up out of the chair. “Your loss. I’ve had fun exchanging insults again, Veronica—it’s been a while since my last creative tongue-lashing. Good luck with the glamorous new career. Oh, and…excellent choice, reverting to shorter hair. There’ll be less to tear out when ignoring my clue gets you nowhere.”

He winks and strides away. She runs a palm self-consciously along one side of her sleek bob, and watches his back muscles shift as he goes.

XXXXX

Veronica submits a form detailing the interaction, per procedure, then tries to re-focus on the mind-numbing emails. The memory of Logan’s disappointed expression nags…but what did he expect, showing up out of the blue with no evidence? She WANTED to believe him; just like she wanted, once upon a time, to have faith he’d give up reckless self-endangerment. But leaping without looking is Logan’s thing–and the best way to protect him is to NOT inquire into crimes of his nearest and dearest.

She’s a professional, though, and the bigwigs want their database yesterday. So she dutifully enters emails till it’s eleven and she’s wiped. V then drags herself home to run on the treadmill, eat a frozen dinner, and feel both sad and glad she’s got no hungry dog waiting.

When her alarm goes off (too early) the next morning, she staggers into the kitchen to grab a bottled coffee; slumps half-awake at the breakfast table to chug. Mac’s gone for the day, probably practicing Tai Chi in the park, but the San Diego Union-Tribune’s on the table, neatly folded to show the front page. Veronica’s bleary gaze passes over it…then swings back, focuses. She grabs it in both hands, cursing.

The headline reads, ‘Wild in the Banks? Surf Wax Found at Multiple Robbery Sites, Source Claims’. The article beneath, written by some pompous windbag named Julian Grac, details the theory Logan laid out yesterday…along with several bits of evidence she’s sure were kept from the press.

“That asshole talked to the PAPER,” she mutters, crumpling newsprint in her fists. “When I kicked him to the curb, I should have kicked HARDER!”

Her rage sustains her all the way through her shower and commute. But when she gets inside the forbidding white-stone-blue-glass building, and finds a summons from Agent Morris waiting? Anger gives way to foreboding.

Morris still holds a teeny-tiny grudge about the whole getting-outsmarted-IN-RE-Duncan thing. And continues to view Veronica with unreasonable suspicion–which is troublesome because right now she’s V’s boss.

Her fearless leader’s planted on the desktop when Veronica enters, legs crossed casually, arms folded. The ‘lazy housecat, circling’ routine Morris uses to intimidate is getting old; so V goes full can-do chipper in response. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

“Mars, am I right in assuming we work for the same department?” Morris arches one eyebrow, and Veronica has to bite her tongue to contain sarcasm. “It’s not something I hallucinated, due to lack of sleep from investigating bank heists?”

“Last time I checked, ma’am,” V replies breezily. “Unless there was a re-org this morning while I was stuck in traffic.”

“And when a potential witness for said case appears in said department…” Morris pauses, for dramatic effect, Veronica assumes. “Shouldn’t the interviewing agent, who’s incidentally my subordinate, notify me ASAP?”

“I passed the information up the chain as per FBI rules,” Veronica says. “And you must have received it, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Yes, but if you had walked Mr…” Morris consults a sheet of paper on the desk by her hip, “Echolls upstairs personally, instead of sending him on his way and writing a bare-bones report, I would’ve received the information YESTERDAY. BEFORE he ran to the paper, and spilled critical intel to perps. I might’ve even convinced him silence is golden, since you didn’t find it worthwhile to try. Here’s a hint—fake sympathy and charm work wonders.”

Veronica finds this claim dubious, but all she says is, “Ma’am, he was passing along rumors. He didn’t give names or offer proof. And I doubt he’s a witness to anything but his own moral decline.”

“Be that as it may,” Morris says. “He HAS made the acquaintance of this pain-in-my-ass Julian Grac. Who somehow knows about the beeswax residue at six of nine robbery sites–the chemical composition of which matches a well-known surf product. Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax, to be precise. Bubblegum scent.”

Veronica contains an eye-roll. “A detail which was kept out of the press.”

“Right.” Morris levers herself up to standing. “My question is, HOW does Grac know? Did he learn this tidbit from Echolls? And if so, where’d Echolls hear?”

“Logan parties a lot.” Veronica shrugs, hoping she comes off unaffected. “And snoops. Probably he stumbled into the wrong crowd and overheard a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, I was interested to learn you and Echolls share a history.” Morris consults the paper again; Veronica wonders whether it’s a car-wash receipt or actual research. “He was your boyfriend after Duncan Kane fled the country, correct? It’s great you didn’t disappear him, too, because we can use that relationship to get close to his sources.”

“Logan Echolls isn’t big on being used,” Veronica says, lightly. “You might not find him accommodating.”

Morris sighs. “Look, Mars, we’ve been praying for a break on this case for years. And, as I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, none of our agents surf. He does, though—Echolls—I understand he’s pretty good. He also trusts you enough to hand you dirt on guys he knows. It might be…” she trails a finger along the edge of her desk, slants V a sly look, “…advantageous to your career to demonstrate team loyalty, Mars. Convince the guy to be our confidential informant. Get an introduction to some surfers, find out who’s flashing mystery cash. His social circle’s no doubt heard about your turbulent former romance. He could help us infiltrate the locals-only crowd, none of whom like talking to Feds.”

“But if I go undercover,” Veronica tries to conceal her mounting excitement, “who will log the last thirty-thousand Sanderson emails?”

“Let me put it this way, Mars.” Morris smirks. “If you DON’T go undercover? I got a server in today from Atlanta containing another hundred-k.”

“You know I’m a professional, ma’am.” Veronica folds her hands behind her back to conceal the involuntary fist. “Whatever my task may be, I’ll work hard to exceed expectations.”

“So you say.” Morris lays the paper, gently, down. “I’d rather you prove ‘my task’ means ‘anything the FBI asks’. Not ‘whatever I feel is right, even if it’s against the law’.”

Veronica nods, giving away nothing. Morris contemplates her in silence. “We’re working on an alternate post-Hearst background for you,” her boss continues, after a tense thirty seconds. “You’ll have it by the end of the day. I’ve also called in a favor from the owner of Neptune’s Net, a local surf hangout—congratulations, you’re waiting tables. You’ve got a month to produce actionable evidence, plus I want weekly reports, in person. And Mars…from now on, don’t leave ANYTHING out.”

“I would NEVER.” Veronica presses a palm to her heart. Morris narrows her eyes, then waves a dismissive hand.

XXXXX

Once back at her desk, V pulls up tools that make Prying Eyez look like a toy and researches Logan. Within two minutes she’s got a list of his petty crimes, including one drunk-and-disorderly sophomore year and two expunged charges…destruction of a police vehicle, and assault of Mercer Hayes. But since junior year at Hearst, Logan’s flown under the radar. He earned a political science degree, with honors, followed by a Masters in English from YALE; and then…he bought a house in San Diego by the water, and a dog from the SPCA. She copies down the innocuous address, cracks her knuckles and considers.

High-tech’s getting her nowhere, so Veronica decides to Google; finds a ‘What happened to Logan Echolls?’ article which reveals precisely nothing. Next she turns her attention to Julian Grac, which at least has the benefit of novelty. It yields links to crime stories in the Union-Tribune, and an article about ‘ten great authors you’ve never read’.

Frowning, she clicks through, only to realize it’s name confusion. But the phrase ‘a writer who prefers obscurity’ catches her attention, so she speed-reads the autobiography of one Julien Gracq; a turn-of-the-century novelist who rejected awards, refused to do book tours, and lived as a hermit. His masterpiece, ‘Chateau D’Argol’, was about a rich man whose best friend brings a poor girl into their social circle. After which the girl seduces, then ruins, them both.

At this point Veronica throws her pencil holder across the room. Because this is EXACTLY the kind of pseudonym Logan Echolls would adopt, and smirk about regularly, knowing few had the insight to penetrate his ruse.

She doesn’t need to use the search tools on Grac, at this point; but doing so reveals his paychecks languish in a shell account. Suspicions confirmed, she picks up the phone. Adopts the sugariest Southern accent she can muster, just because, and spins a tale to the Trib’s receptionist about the tip of a lifetime for ‘Monsieur Grac’. The voicemail box she’s transferred to boasts an inspirational quote (‘All news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit it are old women over tea’), recited in a drawl she recognizes. She hangs up, high on triumph, and decides a long-distance chewing-out won’t serve.

XXXXX

Veronica leans against a lamp post across the street to wait; within half an hour, Logan bounces out of the brown skyscraper housing the Union-Tribune. He loosens his tie as he walks, laughingly calling goodbyes to co-workers. He’s in designer flat-front slacks and a white oxford, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it–his impersonation of clean-cut and trustworthy is so cute she has to grit her teeth not to smile.

The street is packed with cabs, so it takes him a minute to notice her. When he does, he pulls a theatrical double-take before jaywalking, hands in pockets, smiling wryly.

“So,” she says, as soon as he clears the road, “Can I interest YOU in a theory about people who lie to FBI agents?”

“I didn’t lie, per se,” he counters, rocking back on his heels as his grin grows Grinch-like. “I just wore my weekend clothes and kept my mouth shut. The Veronica Mars Express Train to Paranoia-ville did the rest.”

“This is a serious federal investigation, Logan,” she chides, folding her arms. “Bringing evidence to the authorities isn’t a game for personal amusement.”

“What, exactly, are you mad about?” He lifts his brows. “That I gave you a hint instead of handing over story notes? That I failed to shout my job history from the rooftops? Or maybe you’re just pissed I’m not an alcoholic loser, since it makes you ditching me seem…selfish?”

“I could’ve had you subpoena’d and interrogated under oath,” she says, faux-thoughtfully. “But browbeating you in person seemed much more fun.”

He laughs. “THERE’s the Veronica who ran afoul of the Russian mob. So what convinced you my theory was worth pursuing, sugarplum? Not my charm, surely. Some fact in the article your colleagues missed, perhaps?”

“Like I’d discuss cases with a reporter,” she scoffs. “Why’d you go with ‘robberies only happen in summer’ when you had physical evidence in reserve?”

“Like I’d reveal my sources.” He grins. “Gosh, Veronica, seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“My supervisor wants to use your connections.” She goes sardonic in response to his glee. “I’d ask if you have experience undercover…”

“…But you know first-hand my skills are professional-grade?”

She narrows her eyes. He cocks his head, amusement warring with calculation. “If I help you, what do I get?” he asks.

“First crack at the story immediately following arrests,” she says. “With our full cooperation. And any information you gather solo you can use…unless, of course, it’s classified.”

He removes car keys from his pocket; stares, considering, into the distance as he flips them around one finger. Returns his gaze to hers and locks on, Logan-style. “I assume my role is to introduce you to suspicious surfers? Since I further assume you won’t let me handle this and report back?”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” she says, by way of answer. “Of course, you’re an ass already, so maybe you don’t care.”

“I should warn you, a lot of our high-school classmates have stuck around.” He holds his tie down with one palm as a breeze shifts it sideways. “This may suck for you, but you’ll have to pretend we’ve reconciled.”

She nods, and he extends the non-key-containing hand. “Give me your phone.”

V shouldn’t violate protocol; but Logan’s trustworthy, within limits, so she types in the code and does. He enters his number in the contacts and gives it back. “There’s a party tonight at Black’s Beach—should be locals-only, very exclusive. Text me an address, I’ll pick you up at eight. Oh, and dress like a surf bunny, even if doing so offends your sensibilities. Not all these people are stupid, you’ll need to blend.”

“Gee, I was hoping you’d refuse to cooperate,” she says wistfully, pocketing her cell. “Then do something worse than jaywalking, then flee, so I could knock you down and cuff you.”

“Maybe later, if you’re REALLY nice,” he says, leaning confidentially towards her ear. Then walks off, whistling, while she tries to purge the image from her brain.

XXXXX

Veronica’s sitting on the porch of her rented condo when Logan pulls up at 7:55—in a dusty black vintage Range Rover, not the shiny orange Porsche she envisioned. She considers, as she stands, whether she also makes too many assumptions. But his appreciative whistle while he opens her door is distracting.

“Guess it slipped my mind how much you love playing dress-up,” he murmurs. She doesn’t miss the quick once-over he gives her as he releases the brake. “You look great, Veronica, love the sarong. And friendship bracelets are a nice touch.”

“This is actually a tablecloth.” She strokes the fringed white linen, embroidered with red roses, she tied over one hip so she’d feel less naked in her green bikini. “I favor a no-nonsense black wardrobe these days, because Cup ‘o Soup stains don’t show.”

“Wise,” he says, and clears his throat. He’s in linen too, a short-sleeved, half-buttoned summer shirt over cargo shorts; she notes with amusement the shark’s tooth necklace has reappeared. “I figured we’d start at the top of the food chain and work our way down, since most surf crews around here are big on punching but short on brains. Brains being a prerequisite for smoothly-planned bank jobs.”

“Sounds fair,” she agrees, watching his arm muscles shift as he changes gears. “This party is where we’ll find apex predators?”

“Black’s has the most challenging waves in the area—ten, twelve footers courtesy of an offshore trench. It takes stamina to swim out and ride, so this spot attracts real athletes…the ranked surfers that compete on TV. And Zen masters, who just want to be one with the ocean.”

She makes a face, and he says, serious, “It’s not a joking matter to these people, Veronica. They don’t welcome posers in their midst. I vividly recall you disapproving of fistfights and vandalism, so be warned; the elite surfing community makes me, way back when, look like a piker. Crews are similar to those biker gangs you inexplicably love, although these are black sheep from MIDDLE-class homes–plus more ethnically diverse. This particular group is Mother Nature mystical in a way you’ll loathe and mock; so expect pot and hallucinogens, free love interspersed with showdowns. Stick close to me or you’ll be propositioned…and whipping out a taser would break your cover.”

“Understood.” She studies his face, surprised to see concern there. Gentles her tone in response. “I’ve gone undercover before, Logan. And agents are extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat. I can handle myself in a fight now.”

“Like you couldn’t before?” A smile plays across his lips; a street lamp illuminates his face as they pass beneath, then he’s cast again in shadow. He turns into a parking lot at the edge of a cliff and kills the engine. “I’m not worried about your moxie, Veronica. I just don’t want you to mouth off and find yourself surrounded. Out here, surfers make the rules.”

“I have full faith in your ability to fight dirty defending me,” she says softly. He laughs, gaze tracing her face, and she’s reminded of previous evenings with him in a parked car.

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” he murmurs, then climbs out to help her down. His hands linger on her waist as he lifts her from the seat, skin-to-skin.

They pass, in the moonlight, a brown sign that reads ‘stairway unstable due to rains’. He walks behind her down a narrow path with a rotting rail, hand on her shoulder like he’ll catch her if she falls. It’s nice, this unwavering focus, his concern for her well-being despite angry words. She used to take it for granted, the way she drew male eyes. But she’s grown up, post-Hearst; and she realizes now most men don’t pay attention as completely as Logan did.

At the base of the cliff, past a saucer-shaped observation tower, a bonfire sends smoke spiraling into the sky; loud music blasts, Dick Dale with the bass maxed. Seventy-ish people cluster near the crackling flames–on either side, a ribbon of sand stretches off into the dark. The water looks black, boasting military-formation-regular waves, and the rock wall at her back is smooth, forbidding.

The crowd’s uninhibited as advertised, drinking and making out, smoking and laughing. A few guys dance in a circle with much hilarity, like they’re having some Lord of the Flies moment or praying for rain. A knot of humanity encircles loose boulders at what’s clearly the party’s center.

It’s obvious Logan’s no stranger, despite his current respectability. He greets people with grins and backslaps, jerks of his chin, less unaffected than he seemed addressing work colleagues. Almost, he slides back into his high-school persona—the 09’er general who dictated popularity, who slashed tires and started shit when his judgments were questioned. But there’s a watchful tension to the set of his shoulders, and he glances left frequently to make sure she’s beside him. That, more than words, convinces her there’s danger.

They take an indirect path to the cluster by the boulders; Logan accepts a shot en route, which he tosses back, unhesitating. Cracking his neck, he meditatively surveys the throng, then coughs to get her attention as a gap opens.

“Guy holding court at the center,” he murmurs, indicating a ropily-buff Asian man with longish hair and ratty swim trunks. “That’s Bodie Chang, he was a year ahead of us at Neptune High. You remember?”

Veronica nods, watching Bodie gesture lazily from his semi-reclined position. Watching the crowd guffaw when he speaks, soak up his every word. “He’s come a long way since I interviewed him for the school paper. I remember Chang being shy.”

“He’s one of the top twenty-five surfers in the world, now.” Logan shoulders aside a drunk dude-bro to attain the inner sanctum. “In this place, he’s King.”

She opens her mouth to reply; but Dick Casablancas erupts from a log like the Ghost of Shitty Memories past, and drapes a wasted arm around her partner-in-crime. “Lo-GAN!” he shouts, like Logan’s not next to him. “Mr. Echolls in the house, now the party can START!”

“Enticing ladies again with the scents of puke and Jagermeister, I see.” Logan shoves Dick off, not without affection. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight, dude. Something about college cheerleaders and a hot tub?”

“They had emergency PRACTICE.” Dick accompanies a raspberry with a thumbs-down. “Seriously, how much do you need to rehearse waving pom-poms? It’s not like anybody looks at the props. Hey, who’s the wahine?” He squints, attempting focus. “Nice boobs, looks sort of familiar. Maybe I’ve seen her in a por…oh, holy SHIT! Dude, why the FUCK did you bring V…”

“Hey ECHOLLS!” a voice calls, mercifully drowning out Dick’s fit. Logan spreads a palm across V’s back to steer her–towards Bodie Chang, his summoner, and the makeshift royal throne. The King of Black’sBeach looks them both over impassively. “Thought you were too busy for our modest shindigs these days, man.”

Logan shrugs, nonchalant, but shakes the proffered hand. “You know how it goes,” he says, easily. ”All that money to spend, all those waves to ride. Plus too much temptation here to drink to excess. My body’s a fine-tuned machine.”

“I can respect that,” Bodie says, with a faint smile that reminds Veronica forcefully of Agent Morris. “Looks like maybe you’ve had other distractions lately, too. Who’s your date?”

“This,” Logan says, pairing a smile with a warning glance, “Is Veronica Mars.”

Then he snakes an arm unexpectedly around her waist. His hand finds the gap in her makeshift sarong, cups her hip; he pulls her flush against his side and adds, “My girlfriend.”


	2. Into the Soup

Bodie Chang’s narrow face is expressionless—his gaze flat and black as it dispassionately measures Veronica. “I remember you,” he says at last, in an easy voice she can’t read. “From Neptune High, right? You did an article about me once for the school paper…you and Duncan Kane. Carried around a big old fancy camera…I liked the photos you took.”

“Thanks.” She shifts in Logan’s grip. His warm palm spans her whole hip—she used to have such a thing for his hands, which dwarfed every part of her but were always so gentle. She wants to ease away to better focus, but also kind of…doesn’t. “I own a fancier one now. I’m trying to break out of waitressing and into…nature photography.”

“Right on.” Bodie turns back to Logan, his long salt-snarled hair swishing around ropy shoulders. “Nature’s the only answer. The beginning and end of everything that matters.”

“That’s exactly what Veronica says!” Logan favors her with an indulgent smile which borders on smarmy. “She won’t stop talking about the sacredness of every rock, tree and flower. It’s a wonder someone as Zen as she is can function in modern society.”

She winds her arm around HIS waist solely in order to pinch him, and his grin grows smugger. “I’m fascinated by the golden ratio,” she says, with edge. “That’s my focus, the way it determines organic shapes.”

“Like a wave,” Bodie agrees. “That perfect curl, a womb made of ocean when you’re gliding inside. This one’s all right, Echolls. I can see why you’ve been so busy, but it’s good you’re back.”

“Yeah, but for how LONG?” Casey Gant calls from where he’s stretched full-length in the sand, head propped on a log. He’s smoking a pipe of what smells like hash, wearing the shit-stirring grin that preceded high-school mockery. “Weren’t you all het up to do something CONSTRUCTIVE, Logan…before you vanished, I mean? Bitching about how endless summers cramped your style?”

His back, beneath V’s hand, tenses, but the shrug he offers LOOKS effortless. “What can I say? I had plans to win back a girl. Not only did THAT not work, I learned a valuable lesson about jobs in the process. If you don’t love your work…if you don’t do it for YOURSELF…it feels just as empty as not trying at all.”

“Spoken like a guy who gets it.” Bodie pins Casey with a glare that makes him sulkily subside, then pitches his voice to be better heard by the crew. “Here’s what I remember about Echolls: he walked his talk. And he knew what was important about living free. Not the partying, man…the waves.”

“AND the partying,” Dick mutters, when Bodie turns away, bestowal of royal favor complete. “Because if you’re not kicking out jams while you break rules, what’s even the point?”

“Dick.” Logan pats his back as he steers Veronica away. “You’re a still point on a spinning world. Much like death and taxes, you never change.”

“Why would I?” Dick catches a football thrown across the beach and spins it in his hand. “I’ve got brews, babes and money to burn. Deep thoughts are for people with nothing better to do.”

He runs off with a whoop to tackle the quarterback, and Veronica says, “Wow, the combination of testosterone, woo-woo philosophy and déjà vu on this beach is making my head spin.”

“Probably it’s a contact high,” Logan says, with a faint grin. “Then again, you DO find my company intoxicating.”

“You wish,” she mutters, and he laughs.

“Maybe I just feel some déjà vu myself.” He gives her hip a pat and disengages, with an eyebrow quirk of rueful-yet-charming apology. She tugs fabric down to warm the suddenly-cold spot.

“It’s like they’ve been frozen in amber since high school.” Veronica does a slow spin, taking in her surroundings. Casey’s squirting lighter fluid on the fire, hooting as he jumps clear of the flare. Dick’s sprinting past two Pan High jocks to make a touchdown, and Enbom’s on a blanket with Angie Dahl, peeling saran wrap off a square…yep, brick of weed. He does a piss-poor job before giving up, and tossing it all on the flames. Sticky-sweet smoke curls skyward, spreads, and he turns to kiss his date, pulling her down in the sand. “The only difference is, they have a new king.”

“Trying to lead these morons anywhere is a shit job.” Logan leans against the rickety base of the tower and folds his arms, hint of moodiness in the firelight that echoes her memories. ”Bodie’s welcome to them—I might even send him a fruit basket.” He smirks, vintage cynicism, and with a return of briskness adds, “So. Hatched a plan of attack, yet, or are we making up this caper as we go?”

“Be mice until we need to be tigers?” She shrugs, watching Bodie stand and wander towards the cliff—watching Casey abandon random antagonism to follow. “We’re on a reconnaissance mission…a meet-and-greet, if you will. Keep your eyes peeled for suspicious details that merit digging, and continue playing surf douche till it’s time to bail.”

“And what exactly is your role?” He follows her gaze towards Chang and Gant, faintly frowning. “Because this isn’t a Tupperware party, and it looks to me like one-upsmanship is brewing.”

“Hey ECHOLLS!” Bodie calls across the sand, and he lifts his palms in illustration; he’s the guy they’ll try to one-up.

“Want to bet we’ll be climbing the rope ladder and jumping?” he mutters, flashing her a look—one that’s meant to ask permission, but feels like a dare. And since dares from Logan Echolls are basically irresistible? Her gaze locks with his, and her chin jerks in a nod.

He smiles, something sparking behind his eyes; matches his pace to hers as they weave through the crowd. And maybe it’s gouts of narcotic smoke casting a haze over the proceedings, or the hint of danger ahead--but she can feel herself relaxing into the adventure, wherever it leads. Action, not repression. Adrenaline, not paper trails. Real work, real risk, real reward. Life or death.

“You enjoy a good free fall?” Bodie asks as they approach, and Logan’s grin, for once, isn’t practiced.

“On occasion.” He examines the ladder, testing it with a tug. Not for himself, Veronica realizes, but because he assumes she’ll climb. “As I recall, this particular jump’s a kick. Gotta push out hard from the cliff side, though, or you’ll go splat in the shallows and that’s all she wrote.”

_Noted_ , Veronica thinks as Dick approaches, trailing football buddies and chugging beer. “Anybody want to fill out a last will and testament?” Bodie asks, curling his hands around a stretch of rope and decisively beginning to climb. “Maybe call loved ones to say goodbye?”

“My parents are dead,” Logan says, below him, which elicits a distant laugh. “And if my sister inherited my trust fund she’d throw a parade. The only one left who matters is Veronica, and I don’t honestly think she minds.”

V frowns at this before remembering they’re acting, then takes off her sarong and sandals and tosses them onto a rock. Dusts her hands together to brush away clinging sand. Plants a foot on the old fraying rope, tests it with her weight, then starts up like it’s the Quantico obstacle course and she’s determined to place first.

Logan cackles behind her, she feels the sound like a thrill, and then it’s nothing but swaying rope against the rock face in the windy night--slowly crawling upwards towards the scrub-covered plateau.

When she reaches the edge Bodie gives her a hand past; she stands shivering amidst the salt-grass and weeds, looking out at the moon reflecting distorted in the waves. Feeling alive, present like she hasn’t in who knows how long, and it’s AMAZING.

“Nice up here, right?” Bodie eyes her astutely, all night-bleached angles and shadows. “Quiet, empty. Nothing but earth and sky and that big, long drop. Just this moment.”

She nods, syncing her breathing to the rhythm of the waves, as Logan swings up over the cliff’s lip, graceful as ever, barely needing to exert himself. She’s always envied the ease he has with his body, the way he deploys every tiny movement for maximum effect. Because hers so often betrays her—smaller, weaker, than she needs it to be, more angry and passionate than she can easily handle.

He saunters towards her, grinning; Dick follows as always, heaving himself onto the grass with a groan. Casey comes up next, sprawls beside Dick, and Bodie says, “Before I jump, I want you to all remember this: every day you live fully? Is a good day to die.”

With a grin and a salute, he takes off running—springs out hard in an arc of spread limbs, wearing a beatific smile. Veronica watches him disappear from view, Icarus with singed wings, and reaches the edge in time to watch him cleave the arc of a wave and sink beneath.

Logan whistles, soft and low. Dick shouts, “NICE ONE, BRO!” and pulls a beer from his pocket. Salutes the ocean where Bodie landed as he pops it open, chugs—and then casting it aside, whoops, and flings himself, flailing, off after.

Turning to her, Logan gazes down, and the intent look in his eye is one with which she’s familiar—it’s sexual, it’s focused, in a way that negates his lazy posturing. He holds out a hand, palm up, long fingers spread. She looks at it, then up at his face, and the corner of his mouth quirks. Her palm presses to his, their fingers twine, and he says, “On three.”

“One,” she agrees with a deep inhale. “Two.”

“Three,” he says, firm, decisive, and they begin to run.

The grass is both sharp and slippery beneath her soles, she digs in her toes and pushes because she needs speed, she needs height. Her chin drops as she reaches the lip, but before she can kick up and out she’s yanked in his wake and soaring. Flying.

They plummet thorough the cool, windy dark, farther seaward than she could have leapt alone; and she has a moment to realize he did this because he knew she couldn’t make it, he lent her his power in service of her case…and it makes the flight BETTER. Their bodies work together to accomplish the improbable; each second breaks into a thousand discrete fragments as her stomach drops and she feels EVERYTHING. His sweat slippery palm gripping hers, the way his dense weight propels her along a graceful arc, like they’re dancing a ballet through empty air. Then the foam rises up to meet them, the cold, briny spume, they sink underneath as she struggles not to inhale. Hit bottom, he propels them up with a shove, then barks a laugh as they break the surface.

The freedom of the moment is so acute she feels high. He pulls her arms around his neck so she’s hanging around him like a cape, swims hard to catch a wave he can bodysurf to the beach. They crawl out and lie in the sand, and she closes her eyes tight to contain joy.

“Veronica,” he says softly, but somehow she hears him over the roar of the water, the shouts and cheers of people all around them. Opening her eyes, she sees him silhouetted on one elbow, gazing down at her. And the look on his face…

He knows. There’s an understanding in his eyes, an acceptance, which makes her certain he feels the thrill. Gets the lure and bait of risk, the way it can snag and trap, and doesn’t intend to judge.

She wishes, for just a moment, the whole girlfriend thing wasn’t a ruse. Because the urge to kiss him is as overpowering as the urge to jump again.

“I’m shaking,” she says, and he says, “Adrenaline letdown. These guys, so you know, they…feed on it.”

She nods as Casey wades past them out of the water, cackling at their probably-romantic pose. Grabs a bottle of whiskey from some Jams-clad doofus’s hand and pours a stream of booze down his throat. “I think that jump was only the appetizer.”

“Oh, they’re just getting started,” he agrees, like he knows. Glances at Enbom and Ashley, who are 100% mid-coitus on the blanket in full view, then away. “You made the kind of first impression that’ll ensure your welcome next time, so…how about I take you home before everyone’s testosterone peaks?”

Veronica nods; he climbs to his feet and pulls her up after. He’s shivering too, she notices, clothes soaked through, and she can see every curve of muscle delineated by the clinging shirt. Of which there are a lot, it seems, he’s twice as cut as he was way back when. And the boy was, she reflects as her breath catches, never what they’d call a slouch.

“Yes,” she says, and her voice sounds hoarse even to her. “Home sounds good.”

He smiles in a way that makes her realize she’s gaping before striding off to gather her things; drapes the tablecloth around her shoulders to warm her, and shakes his head at the picture she makes as he leads her up rickety stairs. “Looks like a cream puff, never turns down a dare,” he murmurs, voice pitched one note above the whistle of wind. “Guess neither of us has gained as much wisdom with age as we thought.”

“We left after one jump,” she says, pressing a palm to the cliff wall as she climbs _. And I didn’t kiss your brains out,_ she thinks but doesn’t add.

“No boards tonight,” he says, as they reach the lot, beeping his car open and pulling her door wide. “And no Sex Wax in sight. But while there’s plenty of chutzpah in that crew, they’re not so big on brains, plus Case and Enbom both own Lear jets. I think we should widen the net.”

“You do, huh?” She smirks, curling her feet beneath her and turning up the car’s heater. Rubs absently at goosebumps, watching him watch from the corner of her eye. “Good thing you’re the agent in charge, then, and not some too-big-for-his-britches journalist hunting Pulitzers.”

“See you say that like it’s a bad thing.” He puts the car in reverse and slants her a smirk as he backs up, “but I think we both know the whole britches situation was the trait of mine you liked best.”

This comment makes her want to both blush and flinch, which is par for the course with Logan Echolls--she manages to do neither. Just takes a slow, deep breath and says, “Once upon a time you were King of the 09’ers, and I still believed in fairy tales. We were more complicated than sex, which I think you know, and besides…as I recall, my excessive career focus chapped your ass. Seems to me going our separate ways worked out for both of us.”

“Was I just likened to a Disney prince?” He hits the blinker, turns using the heel of one hand in that annoyingly competent way he has. “Why do I feel flattered? Maybe I assumed Duncan Kane owned that category in your mental index.”

“If you knew how heavy the cloud of Duncan’s choices hangs over me, daily,” she says, dry, “you’d no doubt reassess.”

“Well, troubled romantic history aside,” he smiles, very faintly, at some memory he doesn’t share, “we DID make effective partners in crime…solving. So it’s only rational that this endeavor continue. Especially since I got the feeling, when I visited your office yesterday, that you enjoy your typical level of status and support there.”

She fake-laughs to disguise this statement’s obnoxious aptness. “Let me get marching orders in the morning, then I’ll be in touch. One of the most enjoyable things about this job is that my plans are made FOR me.”

“Sounds like an ideal career for Veronica Mars,” he says, sardonic, as he pulls up in front of her place. “Good thing you’ve got me around to liven the situation up.”

“Just don’t liven it to dangerous levels.” She sets a hand on the handle, but hesitates to yank. “As is your tendency.”

“Oh, because I’m the loose cannon in this partnership.” He rolls his eyes. “Sorry, snookums, I was full-on Danny Glover this evening, and you were maniacally waving the gun. Or flinging your itsy-bitsy self from cliffs, whatever. If anyone goes off-map it won’t be gainfully-employed, income-tax-paying me.”

“You say that now.” She smiles, and he gets that gleam in his eye she loves, the one that means he thinks she’s adorable. “I’m reserving judgment, myself, until the first fistfight breaks out.”

One by one, he cracks the knuckles of the hand resting atop the wheel. She laughs, and carries the warm feeling with her up the stairs and inside.

XXXXX

There must have been some chemical residue on the brick of pot she inhaled, because Veronica wakes the next morning with a throbbing brain. A glass of water and a couple Tylenol help marginally; a hot shower and the biggest coffee Starbucks sells help more. But she still needs sunglasses to cope with Morris at the office, which doesn’t convey professionalism as well as she’d like.

She’s barely booted up her desktop when she’s summoned to report, and if her steps drag a little as she schleps across the building, well…who can blame her?

“Yes, mistress?” is how she wants to address her department superior, but, “You rang, ma’am?” is the substitute she manages. Takes a too-hot sip of overly-sweet latte and hopes to God Morris keeps her voice calm and low.

“Any leads?” Morris recline-sits on the edge of her desk, arms folded. Her suit’s black today, with a pristine white blouse, and those annoyingly-perfect knife-pleats in the trousers. “Echolls proving advantageous or disruptive?”

“We ingratiated ourselves with what he claims is the alpha pack,” Veronica says, which prompts her boss to lift a brow. “Half of them were morons I know from high school, they don’t have the brains or financial need to even steal from mommy’s purse. Logan who IS being obnoxious but not unhelpful, will no doubt hit the beaches today, though; so he can surveil other groups while I sit in my cube and fill out paperwork. Yay!” She makes a pom-pom-waving motion, splashing scalding coffee on her wrist, and Morris’s second brow rises to meet the first.

“The analysts managed to ID a personal item in a frame of the latest heist video.” She reaches behind her, extracts two photos from a Manila folder (so neatly they’re no doubt the only items stashed there). Hands the first across to Veronica, who’s forced to remove her glasses to inspect it.

“A bracelet?” she frowns at the close-up of a man’s wrist, squints to make out detail; Morris pushes off the desk with a sigh.

“A TWINE bracelet,” she elaborates, extending the second picture, which proves to be a handmade flyer. “Pukka shells interspersed with blue beads, which I’m reliably informed is a sought-after design. Sold only by a homeless ‘artisan’ who favors Cape Crescent, which should somewhat narrow your search.”

“Well, hello tacky.” Veronica makes a face, reminded of that atrocity Logan wore religiously for half of high school. “Thank God for criminals with bad taste or we’d never get anywhere, right?”

“Mars, were you drinking on the job?” Morris asks, and too late, V shoves her glasses back over her reddened eyes. Drinks more coffee, because if she doesn’t stay a step ahead she’ll end up riding a desk forever.

“More like I breathed the local air.” Veronica toasts Morris with her tragically-almost-empty cup. “Let’s just say, if we need to lock these guys up fast and don’t have sufficient evidence? They purchase their narcotics by the pound.”

“Pictures of criminal activity would have been nice. You know, since theoretically we’re building a case here. But I get that it’s hard to hide a telephoto lens in the bikini you no doubt wore.” Morris reaches into her pocket and removes a small box, waves to indicate it’s for V. This proves to contain a choker, black leather with three square green beads. “Wear this when you’re undercover from now on—it’s waterproof, supposedly. Press on the left and right at once to take a photo, there’s space for thirty on the chip. I want 302’s of every encounter last night, on my desk before you leave today. And don’t forget, your first shift at your new job starts at three.”

Inwardly, Veronica groans. Outwardly, she says, “Ma’am, yes ma’am,” and salutes with the box before pushing out the door. Slumps back to her tiny cubicle and sprawls face-first on the desk. The molded Formica feels cool on her forehead and smells, ever so faintly, of granola.

It takes her five minutes to work up the energy to attempt bureaucracy. After which, it takes four hours to write about the prior evening in a non-self-incriminating way.

Then she has to head home, shower, and tart herself up surf-bunny style, so she can perform minimum wage labor for kicks.

Whoever convinced her the FBI was glamorous was a LIAR.

XXXXX

Neptune’s Net proves to be a dive off the PCH, butting up to Malibu Beach. There’s nothing fancy about it; just a rectangular grey building on a rectangular square of concrete, a white-cursive name-sign precariously balanced on the roof. Inside the décor runs to surfboards and fishnet—fried seafood is ordered from a chalkboard at a counter, eaten at picnic tables overlooking the surf.

Veronica leaves her battered Honda in the lot’s corner, at the end of a row of motorcycles; bellies up to the bar, where a variety of non-Malibu-esque blue-collar types wait wearily for beer. The only visible employee, a goatee-having beanpole in a Weezer t-shirt and Jamaican-flag beanie, glances at her with faint curiosity but keeps pulling pints. It’s six minutes by her watch before he summons the verve to amble over.

“So, like, I’m supposed to start today?” She gives the lilt of her Amber voice a note of indifferent laziness--not ‘stoner’ exactly, but definitely not employee-of-the-week. “I talked on the phone to some guy named Mr. Jacobs, he said he used to be an ASTRONAUT, and…” she lets her voice trail off, glances around. “Is that you?”

“Naw, man, he’s a big dude. Big and OLD.” The dead ringer for Trent Lane shrugs. “Just come on back and put on an apron or whatever. And a hairnet. You gotta have a hairnet, or a hat.”

Veronica sighs, because scintillating conversation like this will make shifts third-circle-of-hell territory, but pulls a red bandanna from her fringed bag with a flourish. Trent gives a thumbs-up and jerks his head towards the swinging door; she hopes to God someone robs this place, or drives a motorcycle through the front window, before she dies of boredom.

Neither of the above happens as the next hour drags on—she rings up fish baskets using the laminated price key, and aggressively chews Bubblicious to cut the greasy/briny scent. Eventually the dinner rush slows as the sun sinks; and, Trent being disinclined to chat, she settles in the corner booth with a Surf Life magazine. Her cell, camouflaged in a psychedelic-Hello-Kitty case, begins to chirp on the table beside her with text notifications. Since no one she knows texts more than once in a blue moon, she picks it up with a frown.

_King Julien_ the sender notification reads; she groans, recalling she left her bag unguarded on the beach last night before haring off up a cliff. Logan clearly seized the moment to slide into her contacts list, and now he’s making a pest of himself, just like old times.

_Did a little beach bumming today_ , the first message reads. _Heard some interesting rumors. Meet me for drinks? I’m told you Feds like to booze it up after hours._

_Not out investigating without your partner in anti-crime, are you?_ Asks the second. _I keep calling your office and getting voicemail, it’s giving me a complex._

And _see if I share my leads with you again_ says the third, _especially the juicy ones. Your loss, Mars. We coulda had it all._

She rolls her eyes, because drama much? Types, _some of us have jobs, and also second cover-story jobs, which require us to do more than wait for uninvited texts._

_Oooh, are you UNDERCOVER?_ Comes the immediate response. _Please tell me it’s perilous and you need backup. I’ve been talking to morons all day, and I long to leap from something._

_There’s a real and present danger of grease burns_ , she replies. _Or getting hit on by a geriatric in leather, but that’s about the sum. I’m slinging seafood at Neptune’s Net and rediscovering the joys of desk jobs._

“You know, if you’re looking for something to do during the lull, you could head into the back and put dishes in the sterilizer,” Trent says, as pointedly as someone perma-baked can, materializing out of nowhere to toss a damp rag on her table. “They’re stacking up.”

She hurriedly locks the screen as he leans forward to scrub. Begins to stand, then spots the bracelet on his skinny wrist and sits back down. It’s close enough in style to the one in Morris’s flyer to put her on alert, although the beads in this are brown, the twine bleached grey by time and exposure. “Sure thing!” she chirps, producing a pep-squad grin around her gum. “Just finishing up my break, texting my boyfriend, et cetera. He’s a surfer, you know, and he’s SUPER excited about me working here! How about you? Do you surf, too?”

Trent shoots her a look both bloodshot and jaundiced instead of answering; pulls a handful of sugar packets from his apron and sets them before her. “Fill the caddy while you text him goodbye. And just FYI we’ve got customers lining up. Again.”

Veronica rolls her eyes as he shuffles off, because as IF she needs work-ethic lessons from the platonic ideal of slackerdom. Begins to tidy packets as a voice behind her says, “Really making headway at befriending the rest of the staff, huh?”

She jerks and turns, and there’s Logan, dressed in godawful lime-green Jams and a too-tight orange tee that reads _Rocket Dog_. He’s doing an edge-of-the-booth lean, balanced on one shoulder with arms folded, and his flip-flop-shod feet are sandy. “Jesus, where did you come from?” she demands. “I thought you were beach bumming, or gossiping, or both.”

“I was on my way home down the PCH when you deigned to answer my texts, plural.” He takes a seat opposite and removes the packets from her grip. Methodically, begins to sort into color-coded piles. “And I’m STARVING, so why WOULDN’T I visit my Pretend Special Someone, thus scoring free food? Only to find her chatting up some dude who looks like Trent Lane, and FACEPLANTING. What do you think that does to my ego?”

“Oh please, your ego is the most bulletproof in the history of human consciousness.” She takes the sweet-and-lows away and shoves them into the ceramic caddy. “And I’m just trying to pinpoint the guy’s crew and beach, but he’s not what you’d call communicative. Plus, he wants me to do dishes with grease burns on my hand, which, sorry, not happening.”

“Diva,” Logan says without heat, handing her the stevia. “Why do you care about that guy, anyway? He looks like a nineties Calvin Klein ad, he’s clearly not a surf-scene power player. Or the right body type to be a perp.”

Briefly, V considers telling him about the bracelet, since it’s one of two leads she’s got. But that would give the impression information-sharing goes both ways, which it emphatically does not. And also, Morris would kick her ass if bracelet references, no matter how veiled, turned up in the paper. “Just a hunch,” she says, airily, tapping together Sugars in the Raw. “He’s centrally employed and also evasive. Besides, it’s my JOB to pursue all possibilities, no matter how abstruse.”

“Uh-huh.” Skepticism oozes from each syllable. “Sure, whatever, be withholding Veronica; it’s not like I ferret out secrets for a LIVING. Why don’t you head back to the register before he bursts a blood vessel, and I’ll ‘flirt’ from the bar while demonstrating lead-gathering people skills? All it’ll cost you is a burger and fries.”

“If I get splattered by hot oil again I’m coming for you,” she mutters, but pastes on a fake grin to coyly oblige; makes a show of bussing his warm, bristly cheek before ringing up a fisherman’s shrimp basket. Logan grins at the rapid mood shift but obligingly angles his jaw; manages to look uncharacteristically approachable while still seeming to give no shits.

“Hey Trent!” she calls when the last customer shuffles away. Her coworker wanders out from the back, frowning.

“It’s Todd,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. Logan shoots her a sardonic look she ignores.

“Sorry…blonde!” she points at her hair with a giggle, which prompts Todd to raise you-need-something? brows. “I just wanted to introduce my boyfriend. He’s into all this beachy-ocean stuff just like you, isn’t that CRAZY?”

Logan huffs a suppressed laugh at her lack of subtlety, but Todd just narrows his eyes, his posture stiffening. “I know you,” he says, a note of wary antagonism creeping into his voice, though he also sounds slightly…admiring? “Echolls, right? You were the big deal at Black’s before Chang came back to town.”

“Used to hold my own.” Logan shoves some fries into his mouth and speaks around them. “About five years back. I still surf, but I’m not really…affiliated with that crowd anymore.”

“Smart move if you’re letting your girl work here.” Todd seems, marginally, to relax—probably some dumb boy rivalry was just averted. “Manager’s old-school Cape Crescent, this is OUR hangout.”

He gestures with his head at the back room, currently dark and silent, but Logan just says, “Wow, things HAVE changed. Used to be 100% Malibu crew up in here, and you know those guys are all starfuckers.”

They both snort at this incomprehensible joke, which irritates the crap out of Veronica, and Logan adds, “Guess your guys’ll be showing up later, then, to plan strategy?”

“Strategy for what?” V asks, with edge, coming to attention. Logan sits back on his stool and smirks.

“I’ve heard all KINDS of interesting rumors today, honeybunny. Very hush-hush, a…Sharks and Jets and more Jets rumble-type situation brewing. At Dog Beach, right Todd? Sunrise?”

“Dog Beach assholes talking shit,” Todd confirms, with an eye roll. “And Chang, you know he…”

He trails off, in what looks to Veronica like a fit of nerves and Logan fills in, “Thinks he IS the shit?” Waits till Todd relaxes enough to barely nod, then continues, “Is he even competing? Because nobody here can touch him; but he seems awfully Zen to be proving shit on regular Joes at the most dangerous break in town.”

Todd shrugs, busying himself straightening a pile of menus. “There’s seeming Zen, and then there’s BEING Zen,” is all he says. “Bring you girl and watch, if you want. See for yourself how your old crew copes these days, when their shit stinks more than they think.”

“I just might.” Logan bobs his brows at Veronica before smugly biting into his burger; Todd retreats to the kitchen. “So what do you think, pumpkin? Wanna watch a three-way surf duel at dawn, scope out all the best crews in town?”

_Courtesy of me_ , he leaves unsaid, but V glares anyway because the nonverbal gloating is unbearable. “I hate you,” she murmurs, tugging the fry basket towards her and eating one. She’s not sure she means it, entirely—he’s presented a golden opportunity to scope out likely-guilty Cape Crescent locals. But it wouldn’t do to let HIM know he’s got value.

“You NEED me,” he corrects, easing the basket gently back and winking. “Luckily for you? I accept both abject apologies and milkshakes in thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was really a VMHQ team effort--Silverlining2k6 came up with the plot bunny, and she, CMackenzie and I outlined the chapter together. They requested thanks instead of author credit, though, so...many thanks for helping me produce this thing in a week!


End file.
